


His Last Dance

by MoonShadow86



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Captain America: The First Avenger, Dancing, M/M, Pre-World War II, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Skinny!Steve, also i have a horrific writing style rip, hello naughty children its angst time, its set right at the start of it okay bear with me, preserum!Steve, preserum!steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7447660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonShadow86/pseuds/MoonShadow86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's last night in Brooklyn hadn't gone exactly to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zenless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenless/gifts).



> all aboard the pain train, my friends. a gift for the lovely Zenless - a close friend of mine and (hopefully) my soon to be co-author
> 
> also, unbeta'd bc i am unprofessional as ever. bear with me.

Bucky had big plans for the night.

However, the world - Bucky learned - had a terrible way of turning those plans on their head and booting them out the window.

It started with Steve trying to enlist again. It had to be the third time that week he’d attempted to get anything other than a big, black 4F stamped onto his form, and he’d lied his way into every centre and hall in the area that Bucky had figured he’d exhausted his options. He was wrong. Steve had somehow managed to worm his way into another enlistment booth, and with that, Bucky was left to dance with both Steve’s date and his own. Which would’ve been fine, but even with two beautiful dames at his side he couldn’t shake the loneliness that came with the lack of his best friend. 

He was missing Steve.

Which was why he was thankful to set foot on the apartment’s stairs and settle in for the night. He’d dropped both Steve and his own dates off to their houses, apologised for Steve’s absence, and politely let them down when they hinted at going out again sometime. Blind optimism. Like they thought Bucky would actually be coming home from the war. Bucky had no misconceptions about that. But, when the key locked in the front door and it swung open, and he watched as Steve looked up from the kitchen counter and smile at him, he decided his last night in Brooklyn hadn’t been so bad. He’d spent the most of it with his best friend, seen an almost-but-not-quite flying car and danced until his feet were sore. It could’ve been worse.

Steve was still smiling at him, and Bucky feigned ignorance, waiting and baiting, curious to see what had Steve so happy with himself but just proud enough to let it play out; wait and see how long it would be before Steve burst out with his news. But it only took him the ten seconds for him to hang his hat on the coat rack and undo his tie, popping the top button on his collar, before the curiosity got the better of him and he cracked.

“What’s gotten you so pleased with yourself, punk? Didn’t think you’d be that happy to be rid of me on my last night.”

Steve’s smile softened and faded a little at that, before he retorted. “Well, you can be a real drag, jerk. It’s not that, it’s this.” He held out a little slip of paper, mottled and creased, for Bucky to see.

Bucky’s brain must’ve been a few steps behind because he was still smirking when he took it off Steve, didn’t register what it most obviously was, but it took a fraction of a second for the smile and his heart to drop. There, in print, as solid and real as the ground beneath Bucky’s feet was Steve’s most recent enlistment form. A success.

Decidedly, the night could’ve been much worse.

But Steve was still smiling and that meant Bucky had to too, so he regained his thoughts and clapped Steve on the shoulder with a congratulations, and a snide remark about finally making it to the big leagues. He took a hit to the shoulder for that, and Steve laughed, rolling his eyes. Bucky found small comfort in that.

It still didn’t mean he could sleep that night.

Hours after he’d stripped himself of his new uniform, swept the pomade out of his hair and cleaned himself up for the night, he was still lying awake and staring at the old, peeling ceiling; breathing steadily, quietly, listening and… processing. Steve was going to war. His best friend, the skinny blonde kid whom he’d spent a lifetime pulling out of back-alley fights like a stray cat with claws too sharp for its own good, a lifetime of patching up grazes and cuts and black eyes and bloody noses, a lifetime of drawing and dancing and fending for themselves and each other in a world that seemed to want to do nothing but chew them up and spit them out, was going to war. Steve was going to war and there wasn’t anything Bucky could do about it now. This wasn’t some back alley fight Bucky could haul his ass outta. It wasn’t bruises and bandages anymore, it was bullets and blood and broken necks and beaten skulls and Bucky couldn’t. protect. him. There was a shaky little sob echoing around the room that he didn’t realise had come from his lips until Steve was calling him out of his dream-like, reminiscent state from the other bed.

“Bucky? Are you awake?”

Bucky touches his face and it comes away wet, and he wants to take it back, to bury his face in his pillow and pretend to be asleep, pretend this isn’t his life and this isn’t his war and that this is some perfect world where he can keep Steve safe. But Steve was already climbing out of his bed and padding barefoot along the wooden floors, timber creaking, and the time for hiding has passed. The bed-side light flicks on and Steve is kneeling beside Bucky, a string of soothing comforts falling from his lips like honey. He looks beautiful, Bucky thinks, bathed in the soft golden glow of the single light, eyes soft and sleepy, hair mussed from lying on his side. Bucky wants to keep this moment, keep Steve safe like this forever, spend a million more nights in each other’s company.

It’s a crying shame they’re both going to die.

Crying, crying, right. Steve has asked him about that. Bucky scrubs at his eyes again, feeling like a child, but he turns to Steve and smiles softly. “S’nothin, Stevie. Go back to bed.” He murmurs, staring at the roof and trying to deter Steve, put him at ease. It fails, miserably, with Steve’s next move being flicking the light back off and climbing under the sheet, wedging himself next to Bucky’s frame. His hand works its way across Bucky’s body to find his, locking their fingers together and running a thumb over Bucky’s, in a gesture of comfort they’d been using since they were kids. It still helps, always helps, something constant and solid and warm in Bucky’s hand to calm himself. Steve is still watching at him, Bucky registers, and he gives up trying to push him away. He squeezes Steve’s hand in response, and turns his head to face him. 

“It’s okay to be scared, Bucky.” Steve’s voice is a whisper and it makes the room seem smaller, cosier. Bucky looks away at that. He’s scared of the war, yes, but it’s more than that now. He’s scared for Steve.

“Aren’t you scared, too?” Comes Bucky’s reply, quiet and almost inaudible.

Steve shifts. “I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t.”

Bucky starts crying again at that. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. A broken record is spinning in his head and all he can hear is ‘Steve is going to war, Steve is going to war, Steve is going to die.’ Steve’s hand untangles itself from Bucky’s and long, nimble artists’ fingers are sliding across Bucky’s cheeks, catching the tears as they fall. Steve hushes him softly, placing his other hand on Bucky’s shoulder and rubbing at his neck with his thumb. “Shhh, shhh, Bucky. It’s alright.” Bucky sobs out a broken "Stevie" and Steve wraps his arms around him in response, holding him tight.

It takes time, but Bucky stops crying. He’s still clinging to Steve, wound tightly around the boy he’s sure he’s in love with, but the tears have stopped leaving saltwater tracks down his cheeks, and his chest isn’t knotted like an old rope anymore. Steve’s hands are working down his back, long, soothing motions, and Bucky feels… better. The sting of reality still lies buried in him like a thorn to his side, but for these short moments, he can enjoy the blissful feeling of being held in Steve’s arms.

Steve breaks the silence a few minutes after he’s sure Bucky has stopped crying. “I’m sorry, I left you alone at the fair.” He says it like it’s a sudden realisation, like he just put two and two together that going and getting enlisted left Bucky alone with their dates. Bucky laughs a little at that. 

“Wasn’t exactly alone, punk.” Bucky smirked, and waited, and Steve gasped.

“Oh, oh no…” Steve groaned, burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder, embarrassment flushing pink across his face and down his neck, and Bucky chuckled, grinning.

“Don’t worry, I said you were sorry. Just don’t go ditching your date next time, you have a hard enough time coming by them as is.” Bucky teased, and he received another hit to the shoulder in retaliation.

“Sounds like you had an alright time without me, anyway. Two dames to dance with, lucky bastard.” Steve retorted, and the smirk on Bucky’s face faded off to a soft smile.

“And I still just wanted to dance with you.” There was a shimmer in Buck’s eyes at that, a mischievous little glint, but he punctuated the statement with a ruffle to Steve’s hair, and tried to play it off as a passing comment. 

Steve wasn’t having any of that, though. He snapped his focus up to Bucky’s face, catching his eyes with those bright blues of his, and drank up the sincerity in the statement. “…Bucky…” A whisper, in awe, in reverence, in uncertainty.

“It’s true.” Bucky confirmed, gazing down at Steve, watching the beautiful boy in his arms. “Always just wanted to dance with you.”

Steve was on his feet before Bucky had even registered he’d left the bed. He was standing in the centre of their shared bedroom, arms outstretched and reaching for Bucky expectantly. “C’mon, Buck, I’ll lead.”

“And what, I’ll go to war with all my toes broken? Yeah, I don’t think so.” Bucky strode across the room, sweeping Steve into his arms, a hand settling on his waist and the other locking into Steve’s. He was warm under his hands, the chill hadn’t yet crept in, though Bucky was still nervous. The longer Steve was up and about at night the higher chance he had of catching a cold, and Bucky would never be able to live with himself if Steve got sick now. Bucky wouldn’t be there to look after him. Another thing Bucky couldn’t protect him from. But he settled into an easy rhythm anyway, swaying and spinning Steve around the bedroom floor. Even with the lack of music - it was much too early to play any sort of records without angering the neighbors through the thin walls – they moved together, Bucky leading with his sure feet and experience, Steve skipping and swinging in contrast.

It felt, light. Dancing with Steve took the weight off Bucky’s back, just briefly, as they circled around the room. It was familiar, but new and exciting every time, something Bucky would never get enough of. It had to be after the third time or so that Bucky spun Steve that he started laughing, a light-hearted little chuckle that made Bucky’s heart soar. Something else he’d never get enough of.

“I’m getting the full dame treatment tonight, am I?” Steve spoke quietly, laughing against Bucky’s neck. Somewhere in the midst of their dance he’d laid his head on Buck’s shoulder, pressed himself up against his body. He looked comfortable, and Bucky didn’t dare disturb him. Not that he wanted to, anyway. He could spend an eternity like this with Steve, for what it’s worth.

Bucky huffs out a laugh and goes back to just rocking, swaying from side to side. He’s got one arm looped around Steve’s waist from before, and the other bent and suspended in the air, fingers still entwined with Steve’s, holding his hand up. Steve was still leaning on him, pressed tight against Bucky, tight enough for him to feel Steve’s chest rise and fall with each breath, close enough together to feel his heart beating against his own. Bucky sinks in the feeling, the feeling of being so, so close to everything he loves and yet so far from what he wants. But, never let it be said he wasn’t a realist. He knows what he can and can’t have, knows his chances and knows his opportunities. But for once, he wants to push, wants to push and poke and test the waters and for once in his life, take a chance. It’s his last night, after all, with the war looming around the corner. And if he died, well, he’d regret it. He’d regret never doing it, never saying it. But, he still didn’t want to ruin this. There was too much at stake, too much riding on Bucky’s one-sided love. He couldn’t say anything. Not now, not ever.

But then Steve shifted his head, burying his nose into Bucky’s neck, and he threw caution to the wind. The universe had a way of turning things on their head, after all. 

“Well, maybe not the full treatment.” That trademark trickster shine had returned to Bucky’s eye, a glint of trouble and a flirting edge to the words. 

Steve lifted his head at that, leaning back slightly to face Bucky. “Oh? Well, what would that be?” His voice is quiet, daring, and Bucky’s in shock, almost melts at the tease behind it. He’s gone, he’s so gone on this beautiful boy. Steve’s looking up at him in question, and there’s hope mixed with the dare. Bucky recognises the expression, sees the hope for what it is instantly. It’s the same hope he buries whenever thoughts of anything more than holding hands and quiet nights spent together and perfect dances float into his mind.

He pushes, because it’s his last chance, it’s his last opportunity, because he wants to. “Depends who’s asking.”

Steve’s answer is soft, faint. Unsure. The teasing lilt has vanished, replaced with sincerity. Replaced with the hope Bucky recognised. “I am.”  
Steve is still staring up at him with the unabashed hope, eyes bright and clear, and Bucky’s mind shuts off. It’d be so easy, now, they were already so close, to just lean forwards slightly, close the distance between them. He doesn’t register his hand moving until it’s in Steve’s hair, cradling the back of his head and carding through the short blonde strands. Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s lips. The doubt fades from Bucky’s mind. He’s done testing the waters. It’s time to drown.

Eyes slipping shut, shaky breaths. Steve’s lips are soft and plush under his own, Steve’s hand firm in his hair. He loops his other arm around Bucky’s neck and drags him down, closer, deeper. It’s warm, familiar, electric, like dancing. Bucky holds Steve fast by the waist, an anchor, Steve’s sure he’d float away without it. Bucky is still at a loss, world narrowed down and zeroed into the point where their mouths touch. Warm. Home. Fireworks, Bucky thinks. Just like fireworks. 

Steve’s cheek is flush under Bucky’s palm when he shifts his hand, and Steve breaks away with a gasp. “…Buck… Bucky…” His eyes are still closed, lips hanging open, pink spreading across his sweet, sweet face. So beautiful, Bucky thinks. Beautiful.

“Shhh, Stevie. I got you.” He leads him gently, bringing his other hand up to frame his face. Guides their mouths back together. Steve’s lips tremble in soft mewls, and Bucky soaks them up, can taste them on Steve’s tongue. They move in sync, like they always do, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, inseparable.

Or so they hoped.

They settle into bed together that night. Pressed close, tangled up together, entwined for an eternity. Steve buries his face in Bucky’s neck, shuts his eyes, breathes him in. Bucky dances his fingers down Steve’s spine, his curves, the shapes, counts his ribs; he commits it all to memory. Steve asks him about the dance. Bucky jokes he’ll walk with a limp. Steve wonders if they army will turn him away if he does. 

“It wasn’t bad, for a last dance.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Steve mumbles against his neck, lips dragging over the skin. “We’ll dance again. Maybe during the war.”

Bucky kisses his ear, his temple, the top of his head. “Maybe.” He pulls the covers tighter around Steve’s little body, pulls Steve tighter to himself. He waits, counting Steve’s breaths like sheep, till they’re even and Bucky’s sure he’s asleep. Sure he’s safe. Watching him, something tugs at his chest. He wonders if they could’ve ever been something more. Wishes it, maybe. Wonders if that really was his last dance. 

He knows better, but he hopes it wasn’t. Blind optimism.


End file.
